


Home Remedy

by Liu



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Barry gets sick, Caretaking, Christmas, Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Getting Together, Illnesses, Len is a good mom lol, Len owns a coffee shop, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 02:33:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8472154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liu/pseuds/Liu
Summary: Barry is caught in a snowstorm and takes shelter in a coffee shop. He doesn't expect to stay for five days.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a birthday present for the wonderful pandora-box-of-mind on tumblr, so: happy belated birthday! <3 You always make my day brighter with your wonderful art and with your messages, I hope you will enjoy this at least a fraction of the way I love your drawings :)
> 
> The prompt was coffee shop AU and Christmas, but it kind of got away from me into 'Len taking care of Barry while sick' territory, so I hope it's acceptable :'D

Barry has never been a big fan of snow. It’s damp and heavy, and Barry’s nose always feels frozen inside and out whenever snowflakes start falling from the sky. Central doesn’t get a white Christmas very often, but whenever it has, Barry’s always felt like his genetic makeup lacks some basic survival skill of how to dress so that snow won’t get everywhere and make him cold and miserable for the whole day. No matter how many layers he wears, how much money he spends on thermal shirts and socks – by the end of the day, he always ends up resembling a drowned cat stuffed into a freezer.

Yeah, summer is definitely Barry Allen’s favorite season. Spring and autumn aren’t so bad either – but when the Central City weather decides to make up for the last five snowless years with an outright blizzard, Barry is extremely, painfully _not happy_.

It has been snowing since morning, and Barry’s job doesn’t get any easier when he has to carefully brush the freshly fallen snow off a dead body in order to figure out at least _some_ clues as to how the man died – apart from the obvious conclusion of freezing to death in this abysmal weather. Barry loses all feeling in his fingers by the time he can conclude poisoning and get back to his lab to analyze the samples (at least those he’s managed not to drop and lose in a pile of snow). It’s almost ten before he gets the results, and when he walks outside, he wishes he could just turn back and spend the night in his lab. But Captain Singh isn’t happy about that, and besides, Barry wants to get home, to dry clothes and a warm room, and maybe something hot to eat. The thought of a long, luxurious shower that will scald his frozen skin and make him feel alive again is enough of an incentive to get him walking briskly down the block with the vision of his cozy home in his head.

Too bad the weather has a different idea. Barry wades through piles of damp snow and does his best to protect his face, but even a beanie and the hood of his jacket pulled all the way down to his eyes don’t quite do the trick. He can barely see where he’s going and as the wind picks up again, every step becomes an uphill battle. It feels like hours, but it’s probably just fifteen minutes before he bumps into a shop sign that is little more than a pile of snow and some really sharp angles he feels against his hip even through his layers of clothes. He can’t even curse out loud, because as soon as he opens his mouth even a bit, his breath is stolen by another gust of wind in his face. He glares at the sign with squinty eyes, and when the word ‘coffee’ makes it through to his frozen, miserable brain, it seems like a blessing to make a quick stop and revive himself with a hot drink. Hopefully, with the aid of enough caffeine, he’ll be able to get through the storm. It’s no more than ten blocks back to his apartment, but it feels like climbing Mount Everest at this point, and Barry’s had enough.

As soon as he pushes the door open, warmth greets him and melts the snow off his eyelashes. It feels like heaven after the torture outside and Barry lets out a content sigh as he pushes off the hood of his jacket and then his beanie with frozen fingers. Snow falls off him and forms tiny puddles on the floor, but Barry can’t even muster up the strength to look sorry when the waitress gives him (and the mess he’s made) a pointed once-over. He slithers into a booth – the coffee shop is almost empty, so he can choose the one furthest from the door – and proceeds to slip out of his damp jacket that makes him feel like he’s choking under the weight.

The waitress clicks over on high heels, which inspires both awe and a little bit of fear – though that might be just the sharp look she’s shooting him.

“What will it be?” she snaps, and Barry decides to forego the order he had in mind, which was ‘something hot, in the biggest mug you have’.

“Uh… cappuccino?” he tries, and she raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him, looking impatient.

“Are you _asking_ me?!”

“No, no,” Barry shakes his head, trying for a smile, “a cappuccino. Please.”

She huffs and stalks off, and Barry breathes a sigh of relief. She is seriously scary, but he is cold and damp and it’s hell outside, so it’s not like he has too many options. He can just sit the blizzard out, thaw a little, and then he will get home and curl up in bed. Sounds like a plan.

The weather doesn’t get much better by the time she gets back with his order, but the cup is big enough and there is some sort of a cookie included on the tray, so Barry munches on the chocolate chip and sips his drink. Before he knows it, sudden weariness makes it difficult to keep his eyes open, so he leaned back, closing his eyes just for a minute, just to relax for a while-

-and suddenly a big hand on his shoulder is shaking him awake. Barry would’ve liked to startle, but his brain is fuzzy and he’s shivering a little, and he can’t properly focus on whoever the person is (and tell them to stop with the shaking).

“Wh-“

“We’re closing, get the hell out.”

The voice is gruff and deep, so definitely not the waitress. Barry blinks a few more times, getting his eyes to work enough to spot a huge, scary-looking guy leaning way too close. He looks more like a bouncer at a seedy bar than a barista or a waiter, and Barry gulps hard at the sight. Does everyone at this coffee shop look like an ex-con?!

“Sorry,” he mumbles, or he thinks he does, and tries to sit up properly, but another shiver runs through him and he curls up on top of the table, groaning a little.

“Didn’t you hear me? Get out!” the bouncer-barista snarls, and Barry really, really wants to sit up, but the table seems to have its own gravity, refusing to let him go so easily. Just as he’s mentally bracing for the possibility that he’ll be physically thrown out of the shop, another voice joins from afar:

“Mick, what did we say about scaring off the customers?”

This one doesn’t sound so terrifying, but there’s a drawly, almost liquid quality to the sound of it. Barry likes that. Barry also likes the table at that moment – it is surprisingly cozy for, well, a _table_.

There’s a huff over his head and then the sound of some shuffling around, and the hand is back on his shoulder. But it doesn’t feel the same – the touch is gentler than the death grip from before, and it makes Barry tilt his head just enough to be able to see who it is.

Turns out it’s only the most gorgeous man to ever work in a coffee shop. Barry is glad his mouth isn’t really working, because he’s sure he would’ve put his foot in it the very second he spotted those perfect blue eyes. Which are strangely kind, even if the man is smirking.

Even the smirk looks pretty.

“Come on, kid. Can’t let you go outside in this weather, now, can I? Got a couch you can use.”

Barry somehow pulls himself up at those words, far less gracefully than he would’ve liked, and blinks owlishly at the unexpected offer.

“I- um. Sorry? I’ll just go.”

He doesn’t want to be a bother – he reaches for his jacket, but the pretty man, obviously faster since he isn’t half-asleep and shivering, snatches it up before Barry can figure out how jackets work.

“Didn’t you hear me? Not gonna let you go out in this blizzard. We live upstairs, you can sleep over. See how the weather is in the morning. Come on.”

There’s something commanding in the man’s words; but even without that undertone, Barry would’ve followed the silky voice without much protest, especially in his current state. Objectively, it is a kind offer, and one that Barry is in dire need of: he’s still damp and cold and he would probably freeze to death if he tried to get home in this state and in this kind of weather.

He manages not to trip and faceplant on the narrow stairs that wind around the back wall of the tiny shop, but it’s a close call. At the top of the stairs, a tiny hallway offers the view of four doors, and the pretty man leads Barry through one into a small but orderly apartment that’s really more of a glorified bedroom than anything else. There’s a couch and a TV set and several shelves filled mostly with books, a neat, narrow desk that probably doubles as a bedside table, and a bed pushed up under the window. It looks soft and clean and comfortable, but Barry isn’t so far gone that he would fall into a stranger’s bed, in any turn of that phrase.

For some reason, the thought translates in his brain as a need for introductions.

“I’m Barry,” he mumbles, rubbing his arm with one hand, both because he’s still cold and because it has just started filtering through to his brain that he’s agreed to spend the night at a place and with a man he doesn’t know at all. He remembers the scary waitress and the bouncer-barista, and he shudders at the half-formed horror scenarios that float around in his head.

“Hi, Barry,” the pretty man smirks, again, and it sounds like teasing, but Barry can’t be sure, not with his brain only working at two percent. “I’m Len. The bathroom’s down the hall, the only door on the left. I share with Mick and Lisa, so make sure you knock.”

Barry makes _really_ sure, because he doesn’t want to die an ugly bathroom death. He keeps the shower to the barest minimum, his skin still itching from the impact of hot water on his cooled skin when he gets out – he doesn’t want to abuse Len’s hospitality and he also doesn’t want to see what Bouncer Mick or Scary Lisa look like if they don’t have enough hot water for themselves. His vision swims when he gets out of the shower, and he’s mildly panicking at the prospect of having to walk back to Len’s room naked – Barry’s never been great with nudity, especially his own – when a knock on the door interrupts his thoughts.

There’s a neatly folded towel, shirt and sweatpants on the floor and no one in sight when Barry opens the door; he also finds a pair of underwear (which look like they’ve been ironed) and some fluffy socks. When he finds his way back to Len’s room, he’s greeted by the sight of blankets and a pillow ready for him on the sofa.

“Go get some rest, kid.”

Len is sitting at the desk, a small lamp giving off just enough light for him to read or whatever it is he’s doing, but not so much light that it would disturb Barry’s sleep. The wind whines behind the narrow windows and Barry curls up under the blankets without much thought, exhausted and shivering. It doesn't matter if he spends the night, does it? It’s not like someone is waiting for him at his place anyway.

The sad truth lulls him to restless sleep before Barry can even try to think happier thoughts.

…

The room is flooded with sharp light of a snowy day when Barry wakes up – when he is forcefully yanked out of sleep by a sudden coughing fit. His throat burns and his whole chest feels on fire, and his vision is blurry and unfocused when he tries blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He sniffs, and finds his nose all stuffy and swollen; he lets out a groan, and that makes him cough again.

He shoots a watery look towards the bed, but it looks like no one has even slept in it – carefully, meticulously made and empty.

Suddenly a mug appears in his vision, and Barry raises thankful eyes to his good Samaritan. Len’s face is one huge amused smirk, but there is also sympathy in his eyes as he pushes the mug under Barry’s nose.

“Drink this, it’ll make you feel better. And take these.”

The two pills on Len’s outstretched palm look like harmless Tylenol, but Barry’s heard enough horror stories about the safety of taking odd pills from a stranger, so he sniffs and looks up at Len again.

“I work for the CCPD,” he announces, voice scratchy and raw, and he isn’t sure why he thought that might help if Len is trying to drug him… but then, Barry feels pretty out of it already, so if Len wanted to kill him or sell him or whatever else it was people did when they drugged other people, he wouldn’t even have to waste the pills.

“Peachy,” Len snorts, raising one eyebrow in a grimace as he sits down on the sofa, carefully avoiding Barry’s knobby knees under the blankets. “You can bust me for drug trafficking when your nose stops running. Now take the Tylenol and go back to sleep.”

Barry does – at least the first part. But as he sips on the tea Len brought him (something gingery and spicy and strong, with a hint of a citrusy flavor), his eyes widen and he glances at Len again, mind fuzzy and still worried.

“What time is it?”

“Half past eight.”

“Crap!”

Barry sets the mug on the coffee table and throws the covers off. The shivers return full-force as the cool air hits his feverish, sweaty skin, but he doesn’t really have the time to think about it. He throws his legs off the couch and tries to stand up, but his vision darkens and his head swims, and he sinks back into his makeshift bed with a groan.

“My boss is gonna kill me.” He cradles his heavy head between his hands, thinking about Captain Singh’s reaction, but Len just snorts again and hands him something that turns out to be Barry’s phone.

“You went through my pockets?” Barry blinks, stomach churning a bit – but that could be the result of the fever. Len huffs.

“Of course I did. Had to put your clothes in the dryer, kid. Now call in sick, call whoever needs to know where you are, and go back to bed. I’ll get fresh clothes for you if you want another shower.”

His grimace indicates that Barry should probably take that shower; Barry can’t tell, not with his nose more swollen than functioning.

“I need to go,” he tries weakly, even though he has no idea how he will muster up the strength to get back home. Or to work. Oh god.

“You’re not going anywhere. Have you looked outside?”

Len waves towards the window behind Barry’s couch, and that’s the moment Barry realizes it’s not bright because it would be sunny outside – the blizzard is still raging, or maybe it’s a new one, who knows… but most of the window is covered with snow piled up on the sill.

Barry lets out a quiet, unhappy whine.

“Exactly,” Len smirks and gets up. “I’ll bring you some breakfast.”

Defeated, Barry unlocks his phone and calls in sick first – he gets about five words out before another coughing fit makes it impossible to talk, which mercifully cuts the call short. Then, he looks at his contact list and after a quick internal debate on whether to call Joe or Iris, he decides that she’s a little less likely to berate him for crashing at a stranger’s place or getting sick.

Not that he’s necessarily going to mention the ‘stranger’ part.

Iris sounds sympathetic when she has to listen to Barry’s wheezing lungs for a while.

“I’ll stop by and bring you some soup,” she says, and Barry winces a little – now for the hard part.

“I’m actually staying at a… friend’s,” he mumbles and turns his head towards Len, who is fiddling with something at a tiny kitchen counter that Barry didn’t even notice last night. It’s impossible to tell how Len feels about being called a friend just from the way his shoulders move, so Barry focuses back on his phone call, right as Iris is done snickering on the other end of the line.

“And would this friend, by any means, be your new boyfriend?” she asks, and Barry splutters (then nearly chokes as his lungs painfully disagree with the sentiment).

“What?! For the last time, Iris,” he groans when he manages to breathe again, “Cisco’s not my boyfriend. I don’t have a- We just play a few games together, okay?”

“Hmm. And you go to cons together. And go shopping together. And have lunches together.”

“It was one lunch! And the comic book store had a sale,” Barry huffs miserably – he loves Cisco like a brother, which isn’t exactly conducive to any romance.

“Right,” Iris drawls on the other end. “So, are you staying at his place?”

“No, it’s a different friend.”

“ _Boy_ friend?” she asks innocently, and Barry regrets the moment he decided to tell her about his bi-curious leanings.

“No. Look, I’ll be fine, I’ll call you later, okay?” he sighs and can’t help but smile when he sees perfect toast appear in his line of vision, along with a healthy scoop of what looks like berry jam.

“Okay. Call me if you need anything, Bear, okay?”

“Yeah. Bye.”

Barry lets the phone drop somewhere onto the couch and accepts the plate from Len, who looks more amused than mad.

“No boyfriend, huh,” Len comments before turning away, probably to get back to work. Barry’s brain takes a moment to process that, and then, his face turns the exact color of the jam on his toast.

…

Barry doesn’t remember dozing off, but he is dragged out of his slumber by the pleasant feeling of cool fingers against his forehead. He turns into the touch with a quiet groan, but the coughing forces him to sit up again. He turns his watery eyes to Len and sniffles.

“Breathing hurts,” he complains, and Len nods:

“I know. Drink this.”

Barry takes a sip, expecting the gingery goodness from that morning, and nearly gags at the taste. This is very much not the same thing – he doesn’t know what the heck it _is_ , but it’s got to be the nastiest crap ever to defile Barry’s mouth.

“What the heck-“

“Onion tea.”

“Onion- do you hate me?!”

His lungs make a valiant attempt to escape his chest and probably go far, far away where onions are kept away from drinks. Len raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, and crosses his arms over his chest.

“It will make your bronchitis better. _Drink it_.”

Barry, reluctantly, does, but just because his chest is still on fire and at this point, he’s willing to drink the stupid, nasty onion tea if there’s any chance it will make the pain go away.

“How do you know it’s bronchitis?” Barry sniffs again and takes a big gulp in order to avoid the taste as best he can.

“Lisa used to have it all the time when she was a kid,” Len calls from the kitchen counter. “Going to the doctor wasn’t an option for a long time. My grandfather taught us home remedies.”

Barry wants to ask, but it doesn’t feel like the time and place to be nosy, so he accepts his fate and finishes his disgusting, awful tea.

When Len comes back and unceremoniously yanks Barry’s shirt up, he yelps and tries to pull it back down, but Len scowls at him and Barry un-claws his hands from the edges of the shirt.

“What’s _that_?” he asks weakly when he notices the folded cloth in Len’s hands.

The next thing he knows, there’s something sticky and warm being slapped onto his chest, and Barry yelps again.

“Pig fat,” Len gives him a smug smirk and Barry’s eyes, dry and hurting as they are, go wide.

“Are you for real?!”

“Yes. Now sleep.”

Barry, against all odds, does.

……

Several mugs of onion tea, three more slaps of fat-coated plastic bag on Barry’s chest, and forty-eight hours later, Barry’s feeling better than he expected he would, with all the crazy voodoo treatment he’s been given. He’s spent most of the time sleeping, but he has also discovered Len is a pretty passable cook and a good host, taking care of Barry with a sweet, if odd combination of brotherly teasing and motherly kindness.

Bouncer Mick brings Barry a muffin and some tea (thankfully, standard chamomile), presumably because Len’s busy with their business. Barry learns that Len is the owner of the whole building, and that Bouncer Mick is actually Ex-Con Arsonist Mick, who is very much not sorry about his past, and thinks that telling stories of his previous criminal activity to a CCPD employee is the height of fun. However, the guy does get Barry some Tylenol and brings him a large fabric handkerchief that seems a little gross to use at first even though it’s clean, but is heaven on Barry’s red nose, rubbed raw with paper tissues in the past two days.

And then, Mick says something about the pre-holiday rush due to the shopping, and Barry almost has a heart attack.

It’s December 22nd, and Barry originally planned to spend it shopping as well, because he’s a horrible person and he always puts it off to the last minute. This year, it has come back to bite him in the ass.

Of course, Len doesn’t want to hear anything about Barry leaving for at least one more day.

“You’re going to cough your lungs out,” he scowls, and Barry groans:

“I know! But what am I going to give my family, a pack of tissues?!”

“Gift cards for coffee?” Len offers, and Barry gives him a scathing look – as scathing as one can get with itchy eyes and a truly Christmasy Rudolph nose.

“Ha ha. If you say ‘travel mugs’ next, I’m going to cough all over your pillow.”

Len makes a face, but holds his ground.

“You can’t leave. You’re a walking public health hazard.”

“Maybe I’ll find an e-store that delivers overnight,” Barry sighs, even though he knows it’s pretty unlikely at this time of the year. He doesn’t even notice when Len has walked out, but when he comes back in, the sharp sound of high heels against the wooden floors tells Barry he’s not alone.

Lisa doesn’t look any more pleased to see Barry than when she first saw him dripping melted snow all over their shop. Barry gives her a sheepish smile. She rolls her eyes.

“Lenny says you need gifts. So let’s start with something easy. Mom?”

Barry’s heart does that squeezy, achey thing it always does when he thinks about his mother, but he manages to shake his head and hopefully not look too sad.

“Um. No. She’s… she died, a while back.”

He expects some forced sympathy, but Lisa just stalks across the room and sits down – Barry has to pull his feet out of the way.

“Ours too,” she gestures between Len and herself, and Barry raises an eyebrow – it didn’t occur to him they were siblings because they don’t exactly look alike, but then… nobody could accuse Iris and him of being twins either, so he probably shouldn’t judge. “You got any girls in the family? Or a girlfriend?”

“No girlfriend,” Barry blushes and avoids looking in Len’s direction at all costs. “But I’ve got a sister, foster sister, and I’d like to pick something nice for her.”

“Describe her to me,” Lisa demands, and Barry blinks.

“She’s… pretty? And stylish, I guess.”

That makes Lisa roll her eyes towards the ceiling.

“Come on, gimme something more to work with. What does she usually wear?”

“Uh… like… shirts? And dresses, sometimes.”

“Jesus, do you have a photo?” Lisa waves impatiently towards Barry’s phone, and he’s almost relieved to pull up the pictures they took on Halloween, when Iris dragged him to a party and Barry spilled his drink all over himself in the first half hour. Lisa gives him a pointed look:

“Something where she’s _not_ wearing spandex? You know what, I’ll find something,“ she grabs Barry’s phone and walks out before he can protest.

Twenty minutes later, she brings back his phone and hands him a necklace and a silk scarf.

“You can thank me later, in tips,” she smirks and Barry thinks that maybe, even though she’s still scary, she’s also pretty great.

…

Iris loves both the necklace and the scarf, and Joe is pretty happy with his basket of homemade jams and jellies (because apparently Mick is good with everything sweet, which Barry wouldn’t have guessed).  Barry spends most of the actual holidays wrapped up in a blanket, but somehow, it doesn’t feel the same without the onion tea or the muffled sounds of customers from downstairs. He sleeps a lot and tries not to think too much about it, but by the time New Year’s approaches, Barry has himself convinced that he should stop by and actually say ‘thank you’ to the man who took care of him when he didn’t have to. Well. Lisa and Mick, too, but mostly… mostly Barry can’t stop thinking about Len, getting up in the middle of the night to get Barry changed out of sweat-soaked pajamas, bringing Barry all sorts of odd-but-effective tea, and never complaining when Barry interrupted Len’s sleep with his coughing.

It's impossible not to think about Len, about his hands and his smile and his eyes, about the way he said ‘good night’ and ‘go to sleep’ and ‘I don’t care if it tastes weird’ – the way Barry’s name sounded on Len’s lips, like it belonged there, like they didn’t just meet, like they have always been there in that tiny apartment above a coffee shop.

He doesn’t really think, so that he won’t talk himself out of it, but maybe he should have: at least that’s what it feels like when he stands in front of the coffee shop and blinks at the sign that says ‘Closed’.

“You could’ve called,” Len says when Barry makes it back to the shop three days later. Len’s leaning against the counter, having just made Barry some truly spectacular, spicy coffee, together with the pastry Barry now knows has been made by Mick. Len also seems to realize the fault in his words immediately, because he raises an eyebrow: “If you had my number. Let’s remedy that, shall we?”

Barry, however, has always been awful at calling people he was interested in, so he opts for stopping by the coffee shop every day on his way from work. Usually, it’s pretty late and the shop’s quiet; he gets tea instead of coffee and stands by the counter so that he can talk to Len, and he doesn’t exactly notice how these little visits become the highlight of the day, but it’s the beginning of February by the time he realizes he’s smiling as he leaves the precinct and heads for the shop.

“So, are you open on Valentine’s?” Barry asks Lisa one day, when Len is busy creating an extremely specific special order for some snooty guy who keeps demanding ridiculous amounts of everything.

Lisa flips her hair over her shoulder and leans closer.

“If you ever bring a date here, I’ll show you what a milk steamer can do to a person, are we clear?”

Barry swallows, and even though he doesn’t quite understand her savage reaction, he nods, because he’s found it’s best not to argue when she has _that_ kind of a look on her face.

The instant he agrees, she smiles like nothing happened, and shrugs:

“That said: no, we’re not open. Len hates the holiday and refuses to serve anything heart-shaped or pink.”

Barry’s plans of inviting Len somewhere go up in smoke – if the man hates the holiday, he probably won’t appreciate being asked out for that day. He spends the next half hour staring wistfully into his cup – it’s almost closing time before the familiar voice drags him out of his thoughts.

“Looks like you could use some cheering up,” Len says, pulling his apron over his head and off. “Nothing a late-night pizza won’t solve, I hope. C’mon, I know just the place, two blocks away.”

Barry doesn’t even think of questioning the suggestion until they’re outside and Len’s locking up the front door. Barry watches his elegant, dexterous hands turn the keys and try the door handle for good measure, and when Len looks at him again, something clicks in Barry’s brain and his eyes go wide.

“Wait,” he exhales and his chest is hurting again, but this time, it’s not his lungs that need Len’s help, “is this… like a date?”

Len, in a very anticlimactic and very typical way, rolls his eyes.

“Not if you have to ask. Been almost two months, kid, honestly.”

“Then I’m not asking!” Barry yelps, just to be sure, and follows Len down the street towards the best pizza he’s ever had at half past eleven at night. Not that he ends up paying much attention to the food, anyway.

Their first kiss tastes a little like marinara and cheese, and melts into the air in silvery puffs of warmth. Their second tastes of popcorn; it happens on the Valentine’s night, on Len’s couch in the middle of watching a movie that’s as far from romantic as possible.

After that, neither of them keeps count.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr.](https://pheuthe.tumblr.com/)


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